


Pythonissa

by angelblack3



Series: Maleficum [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Dark Sherlock, Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Witchcraft, witchlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-08
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-05-12 12:44:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5666524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/angelblack3/pseuds/angelblack3
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The rain tells Sherlock what it always does. That John will always be by his side. </p><p>This is not good enough for Sherlock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pythonissa

**Author's Note:**

> I figure a love spell is just a very potent version of drugging somebody, hence the dubious consent/noncon tag.

Sherlock stares at the rivulets making their way down the window. The rain pelts in sheets outside of the flat. It’s a good thing he’s honed his focus into a fine art, or the noise would be thoroughly distracting. 

The staccato of the droplets tell him the words, ‘sunshine’, ‘crow’ and ‘ides’. A blonde is going to be murdered on the fifteenth, and judging by the distinct shape that keeps reappearing, it’s going to happen in the Islington Borough. He tamps down the frustration of Seeing things that don’t matter.

Sherlock deletes the foresight as soon as it appears. He doesn’t care, and he couldn’t stop it even if he did. He’s waiting for the important part. He’s been staring at the window so the rain will get tired of trying to warn him of useless information and tell him what he wants to know.

His mother had often chided him during his tantrums, saying that the forces of magic only tell us what we need to know, not what we want to. She’d told Sherlock over and over again that he should be happy that he’d been blessed with Clairvoyance along with his proficiency for spell work, and shouldn’t squander it away by only paying attention to what mattered to him. 

Sherlock had learned that the best way to win those arguments was not to have them.

So he simply waits. He’s gifted with more patience than his mother or Mycroft ever thought to acknowledge. Eventually even nature gives way to his stubbornness. 

Sherlock hears John tread down the steps, heading straight for the kitchen to make an afternoon cuppa. It’s John’s day off, and he’s forced to spend it indoors with the maelstrom raging outside. 

Eventually John joins him at his side, his mug steaming with tea that isn’t done steeping. Sherlock pretends not to notice John’s presence, his eyes never flickering from the rain he’s been so diligently watching.

John doesn’t make any sort of hatefully redundant comment about the ‘bloody awful’ weather, which Sherlock is immensely grateful for. Instead John asks, “See anything new?”

Sherlock makes as noncommittal a noise as possible. John would be cross with him for not mentioning the doomed blonde woman.

John blows across the top of his tea, and doesn’t press for more information. Another thing Sherlock is grateful for. Most dull and boring people would ask if he could See into their dull and boring lives by now, hoping that Sherlock would predict some novel occurrence in their future that would make it less frightfully dull and boring. Usually Sherlock would reply that they were going to die horrifically, and quite soon. 

But John was not dull and boring. John treated Sherlock’s ability to see into the future, along with all of his other abilities, as casually as one responds to the news that a close friend is doing well in life. 

So John just admires the patterns of the rain without Seeing anything, enjoying Sherlock’s companionable silence at the same time. When he’s finished, he turns around and leaves Sherlock’s peripheral vision, presumably to go watch television. 

When Sherlock turns back from watching him leave, the rain is finally showing him what he’s wanted to see this entire time. As if it needed John’s presence to coax it into behaving. Sherlock sees ‘yellow roses’, ‘lapis lazuli’ and ‘shield’, and knows that John is feeling just as loyal and content as he was the last time they had such an enlightening storm. 

He ignores the way the rain pelts a little harder when he sits next to his friend, like a nagging relative that accuses him of not being good enough for John. 

~~~~

Necromancy was never one of his strengths. That surprises so many people that he should be offended by it, but Sherlock has more than enough talents to make up for it. 

Blood divination, however, is something he can perform with admirable skill. Though for some reason that always seems to put people off more than the thought of a corpse being re-animated. 

As Sherlock spreads the intestines of the first killer across the autopsy table, he doesn’t understand why this is any more horrendous than making a dead loved one parrot back sentimental statements. Yet Anderson is looking a little green, and Donovan is clearly watching him for patterns. Most likely so she can compare the configurations for similarities to future gruesome murders.

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and goes back to his work. He knows there was an accomplice at the crime scene. Someone had managed to get away in the confusion of the raid. Yet even Sherlock can’t find a scrap of evidence pointing to the man’s whereabouts. 

So he arranges most of the man’s abdominal contents to his intended purpose, and begins whispering in a language that everyone besides the diligently trained have forgotten. 

The smell of disinfectant and viscera is worth it for the sour look on Anderson’s face when Sherlock points them in the direction of the victim’s baker. 

He snaps off his latex gloves, and turns around to find John unabashedly beaming and unselfconsciously declaring, “Brilliant!”

Sherlock is struck with the urge to tear through London. He wants to rip open membranes and pull out the veins of every random passerby just so he can show John all that he’s capable of. 

_Look, John, this one is planning on killing her husband for the life insurance. This one is harboring sexual fantasies about his mother._

_She’s a closeted necrophiliac._

_He’s constantly thinking about leaving his children on the side of the road and driving far, far away._

_Look at all of the terrible things that they try to ignore but can’t scrape away from their blood. Look at all of the ways I can show you that everyone else in the world isn’t worth your time, except for me._

But random acts of murder and blood ritual as a sign of affection would go unappreciated by John Watson. More than likely it would inspire revulsion. 

So Sherlock merely shrugs disinterestedly and says, “It’s all perfectly obvious when you know how to read the veins.”

False modesty rewards him with John’s exasperatedly fond look, which is why he does it. 

~~~~

The rain, the shape of the flames, and the falling of the bird bones all tell him the same thing. ‘He is loyal, he loves you, he will stay by your side’. 

But that’s not entirely true is it? He knows the way prophecies work. Interpretation allows for a plethora of possibilities, none of which are favorable. 

Just because he doesn’t see bells or roses doesn’t mean John won’t find some person who is willing to put up with Sherlock for John’s sake. It doesn’t mean someone else won’t come along and realize what a gift John is, and endure all manner of scathing deductions and unexpected cancellations for a chance at keeping him. 

‘By his side’ does not mean ‘his exclusively’. 

So Sherlock needs to ensure that it does. 

He tests just how much he’ll need to alter things by spontaneously kissing John as he comes through their door with the shopping. He hears the bags hit the floor, feels lips go slack in surprise underneath his. Sherlock pushes a little more by letting his tongue minutely slip between those lips, and is almost immediately shoved away. 

“Uh, what- “John stammers, his sleeve rubbing away any trace of Sherlock’s saliva. That’s it then. He has his answer.

“What was that about?” John finishes, unmoving in their doorway even though the milk is leaking all over the carpet. 

“Did you not enjoy it?” Sherlock pointlessly asks. Of course John didn’t. But maybe the spontaneity overshadowed any pleasure.

“Um, I don’t-. What? Did I _enjoy_ ,” John cuts himself off. A dark look overtakes his expression, “Was that an experiment? Did you just do that for a lark?” 

Sherlock deliberates his answer. In a way it was, but not for the reasons John’s clearly thinking. Still, it’s an easy escape, and Sherlock already plans on ‘fixing’ this no matter the outcome. 

“Clearly an unsuccessful one. Those crushed robins’ eggs did absolutely nothing.”

John looks thunderous, but he turns on his heel and marches up the stairs rather than explode at his flat mate. “You can pick up the bloody shopping,” he shouts down before slamming the door to his room. 

Sherlock sighs. He steps over the bags and pulls out the needed ingredients from his designated cabinet. 

It takes ground forget-me-nots and a bit of John’s hair, pulverized with an obsidian stone in strict widdershins formation, all thrown into the blazing fireplace, for Sherlock to remember why he hates doing the mundane work of spells. 

But it’s worth it for John to come downstairs the next morning, blinking at his phone and asking Sherlock, “Is it really Thursday?” 

~~~~

After that it’s more tedium. Sherlock has to add rose hips to John’s tea when he isn’t looking, rub pink quartz over John’s clothes when he’s out, and sprinkle cinnamon over his food. Of course these things by themselves wouldn’t work, so Sherlock has to whisper and weave intent to each and every ingredient every single time. If he closes his eyes he can see the runes of ‘attachment’, ‘affection’, and ‘desire’ burning in purpose behind his eyelids. 

It’s worth the effort. Sherlock could gather an entire Royal Garden’s worth of flowers and whisper to every single velvety petal, for the besotted look he catches John giving him one afternoon. 

Sherlock doesn’t draw attention to it. Alerting anyone, including John, about his unguarded feelings is a sure way to get John to repress them. So he pretends he doesn’t see it. 

He doesn’t notice the way John’s hand lingers a touch too long on his back when he ushers Sherlock into a cab. He doesn’t preen under John’s gaze when he’s clearly staring at him while he rattles off deductions. He certainly doesn’t return any of those gazes, or steal any of his own touches. 

Eventually, even Sherlock’s not sure what the catalyst is. 

He’s been honing the delicate balance between ‘influenced’ by romance potions and downright drowning in them. He wants John to be his, but he also doesn’t want a drooling twitter pated fool who can’t tie his own shoes without lamenting about how the laces never touched Sherlock’s skin. 

So Sherlock is careful, like he’s careful with all of the things that matter to him. Most of the tea in John’s side of the cabinet is completely normal now, and there’s been a noticeable lack of cinnamon in the house. 

Yet John still leans a little too close to Sherlock whenever he reaches for something. John doesn’t say a word when Sherlock’s feet end up on his lap while they’re watching television. John picks up Sherlock’s dirty teacups with barely a grumble. 

Sherlock almost wants to tell John everything, reveal his whole scheme, just so John can admire how masterfully Sherlock’s conducted everything. 

One day, all of his efforts come to glorious fruition. 

It is, of course, directly following a case. The best sort of case. One that involved complicated schemes, recognizable criminal names, and a chase through Trafalgar Square that will doubtlessly be plastered on every news station before they even step through 221B. 

The lovely detail that Sherlock keeps to himself is the butterfly chrysalis John is unknowingly carrying in his coat pocket. John had practically flown after their culprit, and Sherlock gets to see freshly discovered limits sparkle with possibility in John’s eyes. 

They step through their door, having miraculously beaten the press there. Sherlock turns around to say, “Well done John,” and is cut off by John surging up to press their lips together. 

There’s a moment where Sherlock is stunned. He needs to remember to expect the unexpected around John. Then he’s pressing John back against the door and all that rings through his mind is _Yes. Yes. Yes._

~~~~

Later, when they’re naked in bed and John is arching underneath him, Sherlock applies his craft into taking John apart. 

He traces runes onto John’s skin with his tongue. Words of ‘heat’ and ‘need’, until John is clawing his desperation down Sherlock’s back. 

He breathes Latin in John’s ear, and holds him steady while John shudders from suddenly becoming so slick and open. 

When Sherlock is inside of him, gently rocking his cock against John’s prostate, he hears John moan, “Why didn’t I do this sooner?”

Sherlock is so pleased by that he thrusts harder. 

Soon, they’re both caught up in a magic so primal and powerful, that they forget everything except the name of the other.

~~~~

They’re both panting afterwards. A satisfactory heaviness weighing down their limbs. Sherlock, with great effort, manages to turn over onto his back, holding John close.

He half expects John to get huffy at the idea of being coddled, but the soldier only sighs like something heavy has been lifted from his shoulders. They lie there, listening to the thump of two heartbeats.

Sherlock’s beginning to suspect he can read something of the future from their tempos, when John interrupts his thoughts by saying, “I’m sorry that took me so long.”

Sherlock is certain John can hear the moment his heart skips. He’d only been performing his…’encouragements’ for a few weeks. Hardly a long stretch of time by anyone’s standards. Especially for burgeoning feelings. Does this mean that John had been harboring these inclinations before this all started? 

Sherlock’s mind goes through every single encounter that he’s had with John, trying to see if there’s something in their friendly interactions that he misinterpreted or overlooked. He remembers John has said something of importance that requires a response.

“Unless this is a very vivid fantasy that we’re experiencing simultaneously, I believe I had some part in this new development to our relationship.” 

John snorts, then immediately sobers. “It must have been hard for you though, to read the future and just…wait for me to catch up.”

If Sherlock isn’t careful, John is going to notice the erratic palpitations that are going on right under his ear. 

A common misconception of foretelling is that it’s unavoidable. Somehow, mapping a person’s likely future with Tarot cards or bone throws becomes the only _possible_ future. Those without Sight or the ability to Read assume that whatever’s told to them must be true. Despite the hundreds of variables that could occur between the time of the reading and when the actual event was meant to take place. Nothing is ever a surety, and claiming otherwise is an exercise in hubris that is practically formulaic.

Sherlock had thought John knew that. 

For once, this is flagrant ignorance that he can live with. 

“I wanted you to come to terms with it in your own time.” 

This earns him a sleepy and sloppy kiss. 

~~~~

The rain is accusatory. It sounds like hundreds of malicious children chucking pebbles at their window. Some of it makes it down the chimney, which causes the burning logs to hiss and spit in outrage. 

John seems worried by it, turning to look from the television to the blurred streets below. Sherlock refuses to turn with him, pretending to be fixated by what someone has to say about the dreadful conditions of orcas in amusement aquariums.

“You’re sure this isn’t some kind of terrible omen? There isn’t going to be a bomb in Parliament, or a sudden outbreak of zombie slaves to an evil overlord?” 

Sherlock smirks at that, because the idea of someone as powerful as Mycroft having the energy and madness to do something so ridiculous is amusing. 

“No,” Sherlock reassures him, “I promise it’s just a storm.”

John continues to look dubious. Sherlock doesn’t blame him. He’s seen stories made from drizzles, and John knows this. 

“If you must know,” Sherlock rolls his eyes, sighing realistically, “the magics think I’m a terrible influence, so they’re trying to warn you away from me.” 

It’s John’s turn to snort, “Don’t be a prat.” He leans over to kiss Sherlock on the cheek. When he pulls away, he’s smiling so softly that Sherlock’s heart feels crushed. 

John shifts the blankets off of himself so he can get more popcorn and calls out, “Change it to something else will you? I’ve had my fill of depressing things for the day.”

Sherlock does so, flipping through channels without any thought or care to what they’re showing. Their shutters rattle in disapproval. The wind wails about Sherlock’s audacity. 

He thinks about his mother again. How nearly every lesson was one of caution, control, and boundaries. She used to tell him that they were not gods, that they couldn’t control the natural forces, and that everyone’s will was their own.

Sherlock wonders if his mother was lying. Or perhaps this was always meant to be and he just hastened the process.

Thunder cracks like a schoolmarm snapping a ruler, aghast at his effrontery. With a wave of his hand and a sharp word, the living room is bubbled in silence. 

John comes back with his eyebrows raised in admiration, snacks forgotten. Sherlock motions him over, and as soon as he clasps John’s hand, he speaks. 

“I’m afraid movie night has been cut short due to some unexpected auditory malfunctions.”

John laughs. Sherlock greedily covets the fact that they could be in a room packed with people and only he could hear John’s laughter in this moment.

“Well, until this storm passes, we could fill it with some other noises,” John suggests as he swings a leg over Sherlock’s thighs. 

Sherlock groans, throwing his head back against the couch in exasperation, “John, that was awful.” 

John laughs again. Sherlock wonders if it’s possible to bottle that sound like lightning. To keep it away from every undeserving person beyond these walls for the rest of their days. 

He pulls John down for a kiss, interrupting the laughter for something far more pleasant. Soon, it’s just them and their moans filling the vacuum of solitude Sherlock’s created. He meanders on the logistics of acquiring fresh wolf teeth, to make sure John is committed to this until the last possible end.

Sherlock congratulates himself on a job expertly done. 

The world outside screams in horror.


End file.
